


the dream goes like this

by idekman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 2nd Person, M/M, Post-TWS, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, Unhappy Ending, bucky barnes pov, non-canon complacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idekman/pseuds/idekman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You find each other on a bridge and that feels familiar too. The metal is shaky underfoot but you are stable. You are sure.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>People are gonna die, Buck. I can't let that happen.</i></p><p> </p><p><i>A lot of people have died,</i> you want to say. <i>I died</i>, you want to scream.</p><p>You don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dream goes like this

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the end notes for detailed trigger warnings if you feel you might be triggered by the content of an "unhappy ending" fic.  
> I listened to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Kh09MuIfIU) on repeat when I was writing this so if you need a soundtrack maybe put that on.

They tell him that you've been out of cryo too long and they're right.

You slept on the way back from the bridge. It wasn't a long drive but you were exhausted and as you slept you dreamed.

It's not the same as the memories that come back to you, shaky and hot, in the chair. Then, the discomfort rushes through you and you remember all the other indignities, all the other discomforts, that were lost to the maws of gaps in your memories; falling off a train, the landing, your arm bleeding, your arm gone, your arm replaced. Freezing, over and over. Discomfort, discomfort - pain pain _pain_.

They're fragments and they make you - angry? You're not sure. You haven't felt anything in so long. But they made you hit the men in the coats and they tell him that you're unstable and they're right. It's been too long, your brain is unraveling and you want - do you want? You feel like you shouldn't - to go back into the cold. It's a little like sleep, except you don't dream, and sometimes your brain wakes up but nothing else does and you can't move and you want to scream but you can't. Can't move. Can't breathe. Just. Just exist.

The dream was different.

You haven't dreamed in so _long_.

The man scares you. His name is Pierce and you're the Winter Soldier so nothing scares you but he does. He scares you because they listen to him, listen to his words over your fists. He asks you a lot of questions and tells you a lot of things except what you want - should you want? - to hear and you can feel your brain unwind, round and round, thread coming loose from a spool.

You don't want to go back into the chair because it hurts, it _always_ hurts, whatever they tell you, whatever shit and lies they make up to get you to sit still. But you do, too. Even as you're breathing rapid fire and the panic clouds your mind, you know that remembering hurts more than anything else.

You have a few last thoughts. The face comes up, and the voice. The face is odd, distorted, _wrong_ \- but the voice is right. The voice _hurts_ and the name hurts too. _Bucky_.

Your brain tries to cling to the man like he belongs, that face, those bright blue eyes, and you welcome the pain and you welcome the chair even as your body writhes against it. It hurts. Remembering hurts and so does forgetting, and you don't feel a lot of things but today you feel pain and today you feel fear.

You feel pain and then you feel nothing.

-

A lot of things happen very quickly.

You kill people. That's normal. You tear a man's wings off and that's not so normal but they feel like weapons under your hand so that's okay. You're used to disarming people.

It's warm.

There's a breeze on your face and you don't feel a lot but it feels nice. Normal. People like to talk about the weather, you've found; on the way back from missions, when everyone's covered in blood and stitching up wounds, people will talk about the weather. How the wind fucked up their shot, how the rain fucked up their vision.

Today's a perfect day for it. You could take the shot from a mile off.

You don't.

Instead you find him on the helicarrier. You watch him climb up and you watch him talk and everything in you feels sick with the memory.

You push it away. Clear it out. You focus. You can't see his hair but you know that it's blonde and he has bright, bright blue eyes and you think that these things weren't supposed to survive the wipe.

You find each other on a bridge and that feels familiar too. The metal is shaky underfoot but you are stable. You are sure.

_People are gonna die, Buck. I can't let that happen._

_A lot of people have died,_ you want to say. _I died,_ you want to scream.

You don't.

 _Please don't make me do this_ and you don't know what he's saying so you just stare and wait for him to make the first move.

It's easy. Too easy. He broadcasts his movements, he's brutal and he's strong but he's slow and it takes you forever to realise he's doing it deliberately. He's _weak_ \- strong, of course, physically, but his mind is riddled with weaknesses that somehow are induced by your face. It just makes you angrier. Your mind spins and you're so, _so_ furious - that's the only thing you can find, the only thing you can feel.

You see the opening and you take the shot and you're so surprised you nearly laugh when he bats you away like you're a fly. He could kill you, you realise; you're a good match for him, sure, the arm is good, it does its job and it would take a while but he would win. If he wanted to.

You come at him with the knife instead. It feels good in your hand, familiar. This is what you're good for. This is what you were made for.

It's like dancing. You move together, the shield harsh and noisy like a battering ram, and you fight and punch and shout and it's like a dance. Then the shield is gone and the knife is gone and it's just you, just your fists for a little while and every time he kicks you and hurts you it feels - it feels -

 _Kill me,_ you want to say. You want to scream it at him, want to keep hurting him until he puts you to rest. You don't want sleep, you don't want the cryo or the cold - you want him to kill you. Brutally. You want it to hurt because pain is what you know.

You stab him and it's not right any more. The knife goes in and he shouts and you think that, maybe, you should stop. He dislocates your shoulder instead and pain screams through you and you let it. You let him choke you.

You sleep. You do not dream.

When you wake up it's like waking up from cryo and there's a gun so, _so_ close to you. It feels right in your hands, it feels _good_ and when you see him you forget the blonde hair and the blue eyes and you remember your mission. You remember what they told you to do and you remember what happens if you fail.

You shoot him.

More than once. They're good shots. It would have killed anyone else. You think, for a bit, that it has, and if you felt anything you think you'd feel happy. You completed your mission. They won't hurt you. You'll get food and you'll get water and then they'll put you back into cryo.

You can hear him talking - shouting? - and then you can't hear anything except the gunfire, things crumbling and falling around you. On you. When you scream it's loud in your own ears, the only thing you can make sense of and you wonder if he can hear it. Or if it's killed him too.

You're trapped and you watch him stumble closer. You suppose he's come to kill you. And when he falls against the glass you're torn - you need to kill him, he needs to die, it's your _mission_ , but also - also it's _wrong_. He's hurt and for a fraction of a second there's a tiny kid with skinned knees being pushed to the ground in the playground and you're the shadow that pulls him up.

He helps you get free. You can't understand it.

He talks at you - _you know me_ \- and no, no I don't, _no I don't,_ and there's that old dance again when you hit him. Your right arm is dislocated and the metal one's half way to fucked but it does enough, meets the flesh of his face hard.

You wish he'd stop getting up. You wish he'd stop saying your name.

_You've known me your whole life._

_What fucking life?_ you want to say. You hit him instead.

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._

You tell him to shut up and his helmet comes off and his hair is golden, his mouth is bleeding and his eyes are very, very blue. It's like someone took a picture right out of your head.

 _I'm not gonna fight you._ He drops the shield and the both of you watch it fall. You want to follow it. You feel nothing. _You're my friend._ You feel nothing.

He looks so _shocked_ when you take him down, arms round the middle, and hit him, over and over. Everything he's saying, the way he _looks_ at you, it mixes everything up in your head and you cling to the word. Mission. _You're my mission._ You don't know a lot and you feel nothing but you know this, at least. He is your mission. He has to die.

You pull your arm up to punch him again. Your fingers are curled over his chest and even through the material of his uniform his skin is hot. You want to kill him. You _want_ to kill him but you want to cry, too, you want to fling yourself into the fucking river - you want a lot of things, you realise. All this time, all these years, you've been wanting. 

It's bad. It's wrong.

There's tears streaming down your face and every part of you aches with pain and you're telling yourself - _keep_ telling yourself - that you feel nothing.

 _Then finish it,_ he tells you. You both want to die, then. At least you have that in common.

The next words are burnt into your head.

_I'm with you 'till the end of the line._

You're looking at the blonde man with the blue eyes and you know his lips are soft. You're not sure how you know that but you know that his lips are soft and in the morning he smells of sweat and too-strong mint toothpaste. You know in the winter his breath rattles and his hands are always, _always_ cold and you know he's strong and tiny all at once, and -

You don't know a lot. But you have a gun.

 

The dream goes like this.

You are asleep and then you are awake.

It's not a memory - memories are jagged and sharp. They hurt and you can never quite make them out - but this is clear. Clearer than anything you've seen before in your long, long years.

In the dream it's hot and the tiny man before you has his shirt off. He's drawing and you're watching. Staring, really. All of him is sharp - collar bones, wrists, the press of his ribs, tiny like a bird - and you think he might be drawing you. A glass keeps nudging against your arm, condensation cooling against your skin, and his ankle presses up against yours, skin sweaty.

He stops to take a drink. You can't stop watching his lips. He catches you.

'What?' He laughs and his voice is low, husky. It's beautiful. _He's_ beautiful.

You lean forward and steal a kiss. He's still laughing until he's not, bringing up his hand to cup your jaw. It feels right.

You lean back and remember - realise? - that you love him. The air is golden and his eyes are bright, bright blue, crinkled, and you're overwhelmed by it. How much you love him. How much he is yours and you are his.

 

The dream goes like this.

There is a gun in your hands. You shoot him three times, through the head.

You know, empirically, that he is dead - his face is caved in and blood leaks onto your shoes. He's dead but you still watch his chest just to check. You wait a little while and it doesn't move. You feel nothing. 

You drag yourself out of the river after you fall - _that old dance -_ and you wait on the bank for someone to collect you.

They do. They're too busy to congratulate you - they look _scared_ and you wonder if it's because of you or something else - but someone remembers to shove a bottle of water into your hands and you drink, grateful, use the rest to wash the blood off of your hands. You get a little food and there's no one around to do medical checks and when they put you in cryo they slam the door noisily. Rushed.

 

You are awake and then you are asleep.

 

The door opens.

Warmth runs through you.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You remember a lot. You _know_ a lot. You want and feel a lot - maybe too much. You were born in Brooklyn and you fought in a war. You fought in a _lot_ of wars. You've had so many names but Bucky was the first one and you want it to be the last. You've done a lot of good things but you've done more bad.

There's a woman stood above you. She's got bright red hair and you remember shooting her in the shoulder in Washington and kissing her on the mouth in St. Petersburg. She has a few more lines on her face than she did last time you saw her and when she looks at you her eyes are sad. Her name is Natasha.

'James,' she says. Her voice is so warm but the name feels wrong.

There was a man. A boy. His hair was blonde and his eyes were blue. You loved him, you know that. Loved him more than anything, when he was small and then when he was big. His lips were soft and he used a shitty toothpaste you hated because it made his breath stink of mint first thing in the morning.

You can't remember his name.

'Where is he?'

It's the first thing you say - the first thing you've said in a very long time, you think.

You remember him but you can't remember his name.

Natasha just looks at you. Like she's waiting for something.

You remember.

His name is Steve. Steven Grant Rogers. Captain America.

You remember.

You know _everything_.

There's this noise - it's loud, too loud. It sounds like heartbreak and anger and it hurts your ears, your chest, your throat - it takes a little while to realise it's you. You're screaming, over and over, tears burning your eyes and you think _good_ , you want it to hurt, you want to tear your fingernails into your palms and keep pulling until you're unraveled and you want every inch of it to hurt. Bloody thread coming loose from an aching spool. 

He was good - he was so _good_ and you loved him, more than anything. He was yours and you were his. And you'd let his blood stain your shoes after you shot him.

You scream and Natasha watches you. She doesn't touch you, doesn't hold you. Good. You don't deserve it.

Your skin is still cold from cryo and you don't stop screaming when they come to get you. They throw you in a cell and you scream until you can't any more. Then you cry and cry and cry and eventually you sleep. You do not dream.

 

There are court rooms and trials and judges and juries. They ask you questions. You know everything but you tell them nothing and when they ask why you killed Captain America you say  _he was my mission_ and they don't let you leave the stand even as you sob.

 

'They made a decision this morning. They've given you a life sentence. You will remain here until you die.'

Natasha's eyes are kind. She doesn't look like she agrees with what she's saying.

There's a gun in her hands. You look at it. Look at her.

'Would you like me to?'

You know what she's asking.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You are in love with a man called Steve Rogers. Your mind is full of him. You were born in Brooklyn and you died when you shot Captain America in Washington.

'Yes,' you tell her. Your voice is rusty.

She looks sad. She loved you, once upon a time, but you think she might have loved Steve Rogers like a brother if she'd had the chance and you wonder how much pain you can cause in this one tiny world.

She brings the gun up to your forehead. The metal is cool and when you shut your eyes you see him. You remember kissing him, remember holding him when he was sick and then when he was fine. Time splits into fractions and you recall every iota of him, the tiny mole on his collar bone and the scar on his ribs you used to kiss, the way he would sound when he was mad at you and the way he would sigh when you touched him. Your mind is full of him.

Your hands are shaking.

You think that, at least, you're lucky you can die knowing him. You wonder if he's waiting for you. If he dreamed of you when he was sleeping.

You wonder -

 

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> major character death  
> assisted suicide  
> graphic descriptions of violence  
> -  
> I'M SORRY I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED ONE MINUTE EVERYTHING WAS FINE THE NEXT I WAS CRYING OVER MY OWN FIC.  
> Come hurl abuse at me on [twitter,](https://twitter.com/peedonthefloor) my [personal tumblr](whambamsebastianstan.tumblr.com) or my [writing tumblr.](idekman-ao3.tumblr.com)


End file.
